Page 190 of Fractured Loyalties
“New player,” Lydia says. “Could be the one moving pieces while Volker stays in the dark.”
I study the stranger’s movements, the way he glances at the ceiling corners. Checking cameras. He knows he’s being watched.
Mara steps closer to me, her voice low. “We can’t just watch.”
“No,” I agree. “We won’t.”
I tap the monitor casing, tracing the timestamp in the corner. This feed is live. That means the corridor is no more than two levels down. But we’ll need to pass through the choke points—places Volker designed to slow an approach.
I look at Kinley. “Route?”
He pulls a folded schematic from his vest, laying it across a dust-coated workbench. “We’re here. We take service hall B, cut through the old generator room, then drop into the holding corridor from the blind side. If they’ve got sensors active, we’ll trip them no matter what.”
“Then we make speed our advantage,” I say.
Lydia’s mouth curves faintly. “Fast and loud. My favorite.”
Mara’s eyes flick between us. “And if it’s a trap?”
“It will be,” I say. “We walk in anyway.”
We move out of the room fast, the schematic burned into my mind. Service hall B is narrower than I remember; every pipealong the wall is sweating condensation. Our footsteps sound louder here, the space amplifying each shift of weight. The old generator room smells of rust and the sharp scent of ionized air, the hulking machines long dead but still holding the echo of power.
Halfway through, movement flashes in my periphery. I swing toward it, rifle up. A figure darts between the shadows—small, fast. Not Jori. Not armed. Gone before I can get a clear line.
Kinley sweeps the far corner. “Clear.”
“Not clear,” I counter. “Eyes up.”
We press on, descending a final set of metal stairs that hum faintly under our boots. At the base, the air shifts—colder, heavier. The holding corridor waits just ahead, its light spilling pale and sterile across the threshold.
I signal halt, crouching low to peer around the frame. The pacing man is still there, closer to Jori now, speaking low enough that the words don’t carry. Jori’s head lifts fractionally, but his expression stays unreadable.
“Positions,” I murmur. Lydia and Kinley fan out to either side of the doorway. Mara stays just behind me, her hand tight on my sleeve.
One breath to steady. One more to commit.
Then we move.
We surge into the holding corridor in one violent motion. My boots strike the tile hard, the echo ricocheting off steel and concrete. The pacing man spins toward us, hand going for a weapon under his coat.
“Down,” I bark, driving Mara toward the wall behind me. Kinley fires first. The round pings off the frame abovethe stranger’s head. He moves like someone trained for close quarters—no hesitation, no wasted steps. His gun comes up. Lydia’s shot blows it from his hand, the weapon clattering across the floor.
“On your knees,” Kinley orders.
The man doesn’t kneel. He smiles—just a tilt of his mouth—before lunging for a control panel on the wall. I slam into him before he can reach it. The impact jars my shoulder, sending a white-hot flash down my arm. My fingers clamp around his collar, twisting hard as I drive him backward into the wall. His head snaps against concrete.
“Who are you working for?” I snarl.
He doesn’t answer. His eyes flick to Jori, then back to me.
Mara slips past me toward the shackles. “Jori—”
“Don’t touch him!” the man shouts. His voice is sharp, panicked. Too late—Kinley’s already moving to cover her. Lydia circles behind the stranger, zip-tying his wrists in one clean motion.
I turn to Jori. He’s thinner than the last time I saw him, his skin pale under the cold fluorescents. His gaze is locked on me, something unreadable in it. “Still here,” he says, voice rough.
“Not for lack of their trying,” I answer.
